


Can't Remember Me Like That

by almina



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:46:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1887198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almina/pseuds/almina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was not that he loved his family less, but Jesse was tangled in his guts, had grown into his soul and his heart. Mr. White even had thoughts he could not believe came from his oh so rational mind - if the dead could visit the living, he would return to Jesse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Remember Me Like That

"Then get the fuck out and never come back," Jesse said, his stare deadly, his voice cold.

Mr. White left, swaying, broken. 

Mr. White could make Jesse madder than anyone else. As for his attachment to Mr. White, He didn't have the word for it but he knew how it started. Exactly.

Months ago, Jesse's parents had sadly, calmly, logically told him they could not let him drag them down. Get out. 

But, Mr. White put it all on the table, life, liberty, his own family, money and meth business when he ran down the two dealers who were minutes from killing Jesse. He could have been caught through merest bad luck. Like a cop car turning onto the street when Mr. White blasted into those guys then shot the survivor. Like a security camera in the wrong place. Jesse could hardly take it in. Someone loved him that much. Mr. White could never undo it. Mr. White could say that he hated him, despised his thinking, but there was that wild, generous act, louder than any words.

Tonight's fight? As usual Mr. White was right. Jesse probably would die in Mexico, after cooking inferior product for the cartel. Soon he would be rotting in the desert.

He was ashamed. What kind of person beats up a cancer patient who catches him in a lie? Jesse realized these were the last hours of his life. He had to see Mr. White again. Jesse did not intend to apologize because sorry wouldn't cut it. He needed to see Mr. White even if Mr. White reviled him and threw him out. He would take it. 

He did not expect Mr. White to open the door to him so he took tools that had served him well since fifteen years of age when he learned to force locks.

He drove to Mr. White's condo. No lights on. The Aztek was there. Jesse was inside the kitchen in less than six minutes. He called Mr. White's name and flipped on the lights. He did not want Mr. White to shoot him. It would be totally understandable under the circumstances. 

He turned on the bedroom light. Mr. White was in bed, his face bleeding. He looked at Jesse with alarm but he did not move. Jesse knew he was wondering if this was to be a continuation of the fight. Mr. White had no more fight in him.

Jesse half raised his hands, palms out, no harm meant. He approached the bed. "I can't have you remember me like that," he said. He reached into his pocket, took out his house key and laid it on the bedside table. It was as close as he could get to taking back those hateful words - 'get the fuck out and never come back.'

Jesse sat on the side of the bed. "I know what Gus means to do. You're dead or I'm dead. It's going to be me."

"No," Mr. White turned his head slightly. Jesse saw that he had been crying.

Jesse gently laid his hand on Mr. White's face. "Hey."

Jesse toed off his shoes, and eased himself over Mr. White so he was lying beside him on his back. He snaked his arm under Mr. White's neck to his shoulder and pulled him close. Jesse felt the weight of Mr. White's head on his chest, his breath through his tee. He put his lips to Mr. White's scalp, not quite a kiss. 

Jesse thought Mr. White was asleep. But Mr. White spoke, his voice hoarse. "Better it's me. You can cook well enough to replace me. Do that for me." 

Later Mr. White whispered,"Oh, God, I'm so tired." Jesse held him tighter. He remembered the crack house, remembered how Mr. White had looked after him. He could give back. Mr. white would remember that Jesse had repaid that tenderness. A little.

 

The plane that would take Gus, Mike and Jesse to Mexico was a pretty red high wing, the sort that in a different world, Jesse would have liked to fly. Before he boarded, Jesse took a moment to look at the desert, the wide sky. He did not expect to see it again.

 

A week later, Mr. White so casually asked Hank about drug killings. There had been something in the paper about the cartel going crazy. Was it true? It was not the first time Mr. White had appealed to Hank's vanity, implying that he knew much more than the journalists.

"Yeah, rats clawing each other's eyes out. Cartel people bloating in the sun, three Americans down. Sometimes you just wait and problems solve themselves." 

Mr. White changed the subject before Hank said something about Jesse Mr. White could not forgive.

 

For every day of the two weeks after Jesse left, Mr. White drove by Jesse's house. He put the mail inside to make it look inhabited and once called a yard care service to mow the lawn. After Hank's words - three Americans down - Mr. White felt less expectation that Jesse would return. It was an ache like the cancer, slow and inexorable. 

On his way there at the beginning of the third week, he found himself behind a dusty black SUV with California plates. Three times it veered to the curb. Probably looking for an address. So irritating. Then it stopped at Jesse's house. The backseat door opened and a crutch poked out. 

Slowly, slowly like the most decrepit old person, a body followed the crutch. Mr. White gasped as he recognized Jesse.

As soon as Jesse was out, the door closed and the car sped off. Jesse looked around as if he did not know where he was. Mr. White parked near him.

"Jesse."

Jesse turned his head to Mr. White. He looked ten pounds thinner and he never had ten pounds to lose. His face was drawn, dark circles under his eyes. When Mr. White went to Jesse's side, he saw the glassy eyes, saw Jesse breathing hard.

Jesse made his way to the front door. He put little weight on his right leg. It dripped a bloody trail on the steps. That decided Mr. White. He was going to see what was wrong with him no matter how Jesse protested. Mr. White opened the door, took Jesse's arm and sat him on a kitchen chair. 

Mr. White went through the kitchen drawers until he found scissors. He cut Jesse's jeans up the seam and just barely kept himself from recoiling when he saw the puffed flesh almost hiding sutures along a four inch wound oozing pus that rolled down the swollen leg. Jesse was so ... damaged. He should have been yelling at Mr. White, "Keep your homo hands off me," or some such nonsense. But he drooped in the chair so much that Mr. White pushed him upright. The heat of the boy's skin was horrifying. Jesse's head lolled back. 

Jesse needed medical help. Fast. As to Jesse's insurance, Mr. White had no idea. At this point Jesse probably did not either.

A few summers ago, during a backyard cookout, Hank told him about this Dr. Merrick. Fine surgeon, did a great job on cops who had been shot. But he was also an off the books guy. Meaning, for a considerable price, he would patch up foreign nationals or dope dealers without reporting injuries to the cops or to insurance companies. The occasional policeman had used Merrick in this capacity. Mr. White took the story for what it was. Hank and the cops there enjoyed impressing him, the ultimate harmless civilian, with inside info. Now that info was useful. Mr. White could not have Jesse try to explain his wound. 

Mr. White steeled himself and cut off the leg of Jesse's jeans. The cloth made a sodden flopping noise as it hit the floor. He got out his phone, took pictures of the wound, searched Dr. Merrick's number and sent them. 

Merrick told him he would admit Jesse directly from ER. "Insurance?"

"Cash on the barrelhead," said Mr. White.

 

After Jesse got a whopping dose of antibiotics, and was being taken to surgery, Merrick gestured for Mr. White to follow him into his office. He unlocked a large dark wood cabinet, to reveal a bill counting machine. 

"Venal," he said, "but that's the lay of the land." 

Mr. White put four fat rolls of bills on the desk, thousands, hundreds, fifties. The machine whirred and Merrick nodded. He rang for his office manager and said, "Pinkman." 

 

While Jesse recovered from surgery, Mr. White shopped for him, filled his fridge with fruit and vegetables, juice, milk. He got funyons because Jesse would probably not eat at all if he could not have junk food he liked. He opened Jesse's closet and was surprised by its tidiness. For once he was glad that Jesse wore such baggy clothes, things that would not chafe that stomach turning wound. He chose some black jeans for Jesse to wear home, passed on the tee emblazoned with a masturbating skeleton, in favor of one with a skunk turned backside to, tail up, ready to spray.

Dr. Merrick dressed the wound when Mr. White came to take Jesse home. "I've seen this dozens of times," Merrick said. Hospitals, prisons down there send Americans back home if they are dying. Mr. Pinkman was on the verge of going septic. Would have lost his leg certainly and probably his life."

Jesse was in a wheelchair. Mr. White walked beside him. "You saved me again," Jesse said.

At home, Mr. White helped Jesse to the sofa, gave him some iced tea. He didn't think Jesse should have beer yet. 

"So what happened?"

"Shitstorm." Jesse was looking into the middle distance. "I cooked 96.2" Everyone's glad about that except their chemist. Then Don Eladio wants to make happy, pours everyone some junk Gus gave him. 

Jesse shook his head at the memory. "Gus disappears and people drop like fuckin' flies. Gus comes back outside and grabs his belly. Mike and I drag him out. Take the first car with keys left in it. There was this field hospital."

Jesse drifted a bit as he remembered. Mr. White did not rush him.

"Mike was shot bad. He's still down there. At first, I didn't even know I had been shot. Gus is messed up. Like brain damage," Jesse said. 

Mr. White looked at him with sharp attention.

"He talks about chickens he had when he was a kid. Their names. Can't keep track of business."

Mr. White's expression and his body language underwent a change when Jesse said that.

"Then he'll need help to oversee cooking on a large scale. To get it to the European markets," Mr. White said. He was a hundred seventy pound wolf contemplating a lamb. An opportunity had presented itself. 

"I'm going to be gone for a few days," Mr. White said. "Your prescriptions are in the fridge. I'm going to see you eat a decent meal before you go to bed."

Mr. White set out a salad, some strawberries, warmed up pizza, lemonade. He also put a vitamin supplement and a mineral supplement beside Jesse's plate. 

Jesse step-hopped to the table without using his crutch. He put one hand on the table and the other on the chair as he sat down. To Mr. White's surprise he took the supplements without protest. He stopped himself from commenting on this minor miracle. Jesse caught it.

"It's easier to take them than to listen to you bitch about my eating habits."

Jesse was recovering.

 

It was a win - win situation for Mr. White and Gus. Mr. white was to keep the jackals from closing in on the somewhat childlike Gus Fring. Appearances would remain intact. It looked as if Gus were still in charge of the American southwest meth territory. Mr. White would work through the Madrigal Corporation for European and Asian distribution of product.

When Mr. White returned to Jesse's house, he found Jesse playing video games. He was wearing only sleep shorts. The dressing was lightly stained with blood. First words out of Jesse's mouth, "You should have taken me with you."

"Huh?" Mr. White opened his hands. Just what was Jesse thinking?

"To have your back."

Mr. White shook his head. "And just how would you deal with trouble? Ooze pus on them?" Immediately he regretted it. It wasn't fair. Just look at Jesse, bones so close to the surface, zonked on pain meds and mind fuzzing antibiotics.

But Jesse stared, then laughed, doubling up, his face all red. He put down the game controller and caught his breath. He said, "pus," and was laughing again.

Lord, the things Jesse thought were funny but Mr. White loved to see his wild child laugh.

What Mr. White kept to himself was the certainty that if Jesse had died of the infection, he would have sought out and slaughtered anyone who could have helped Jesse but failed him.

 

Mr. White's empire grew quickly enough to alarm prosecutors on three continents. Then just as quickly he scaled it back, selling chunks to drug lords, many of whom had private aspirations of being the next Walter White. No blood flowed, only money. A few, mostly in law enforcement, had eyes to see the genius of it. Mr. White was the best cook. He became the best empire builder and now he was turning his empire into tens of millions of dollars. Yes, chemistry is transformation. 

Mr. White's drug profits, suitably laundered, quickly found their way to legitimate businesses, tax paying businesses, businesses that made political contributions.

He dealt summarily with a few benighted kingpin wannabes, fools who preferred to kill and take, rather than buy at a bargain.

Still, Mr. White hated violence now, couldn't even watch it on television. "It is stunning," he said, "how stupid people can be. The police are much easier to work with when the are no bodies in the streets. When gangs mind their manners."

Of all his businesses, Mr. White's favorite was a chemical research lab based in Albuquerque, close to where he and Jesse lived. You could not find Mr. White's name anywhere in company documentation, though he was present in the lab or offices every week. It was a productive lab, doing original work and turning out patent applications, several of which came into direct competition with Gray Matter's intellectual property.

 

Jesse and Mr. White were at home in their posh house in a posh section of Albuquerque. 

Mr. White looked up from his computer at Jesse. "You're out of the business," he said. 

"Wha..."

"Too dangerous."

"I've got bills."

"I'll provide."

"Sugar daddy from beyond the grave?" Jesse hated himself the moment the words were out of his mouth.

Mr. White sighed. "Trust funds, with money several removes from the business. You will never have to cook again."

"what am I going to do?" Jesse had only the one marketable skill and he was proud of it.

Mr. White shrugged and made a what-the-hell gesture. "Be a rich brat. You're already well started."

"But you..."

"If prosecutors want me, they have to think how much it will cost and how likely they are to lose."

Every so often Jesse thought Mr. White was actually a good person but then that arrogance rolled out.

Jesse was walking away when Mr. White caught his wrist. 

"You ARE out of the business. It forces you to make terrible decisions." He didn't have to say Emilio, Crazy 8, Gale...

Jesse tried to pull away. 

"What did I just say?"

"No more meth. Ever. Jeez." 

Mr. White released his wrist.

Jesse made an effort to keep from rubbing it. "You are such a fuckin' hypocrite," he said.

Mr. White looked back to his computer. "Part of being a parent," he said, utterly unbothered by Jesse's tone.

Jesse was about to retort that Mr. White was not his father when the truth smacked him. Mr. White was more his father than the man whose DNA he shared. He loved Mr. White more than the man whose DNA he shared. He would die for him.

 

Mr. White's health failed. It was not dramatic, but a diminution of energy. He got up later, ate less. 

Jesse recognized the signs. He was snappish and frantic as he re-lived his Aunt Ginny's decline. Mr. White said it was not a big deal. He had lived long enough and done what he wanted to do. Jesse contacted Mr. White's family, brought Walter, Jr. and Holly to him. Usually they spent time on the terrace, a blanket over Mr. White. He was always cold now. Holly splashed her hands in the bird bath, and pointed at the hummingbirds as they darted round the feeders. Walter Jr. sat near his father, his handsome face sometimes grave, sometimes happy. He didn't talk much.

Jesse let Skyler know that he would not be there and she finally visited her ex husband. She did not like Jesse nor his hold on Walt. At first she thought what everyone would think of the situation - a very rich man living with a good looking young man. But no. "I've watched them together," Skyler said to her sister. "They act like they're related, each other's favorite relation in fact." 

There was nothing Mr. White could do to ease Skyler's animosity. It was not that he loved his family less, but Jesse was tangled in his guts, had grown into his soul and his heart. Mr. White even had thoughts he could not believe came from his oh so rational mind - if the dead could visit the living, he would return to Jesse.

After Skyler's visit, Mr. White told Jesse that she would never take drug profits, but money from his legitimate business was acceptable, thank you.

Gus Fring died in late summer, collapsing in his garden as he knelt to free a baby chicken whose leg was caught in a grape vine tendril.

Jesse spent every moment with Mr. White. Seeing that the medication stayed ahead of his pain. Making sure he had any thing he wanted to eat. Making sure he was comfortable here at home. Mr. White's mind was on his businesses and the meth empire, even chemical processes that he lost track of as he tried to think them through. Sometimes he was lucid, at other times he talked of what had been done as if it were still in the future.

Jesse humored him and did not try to bring him back to reality. "So who gets what's left?" Jesse was referring to the drug empire. 

"The strongest," said Mr. White with a trace of a smile.

The end was easy as Mr. white said it would be. Jesse was the only one there, beside the bed, his fingers interlaced with Mr. White's. Mr. white stopped breathing. Jesse sat with him until the warmth left his hands.


End file.
